Smudge
by Solia
Summary: Scully reflects on what it means to have a name as dirty as Mulder's. Written in response to leiascully's XF Writing Challenge.


Title: Smudge

Fandom: The X-Files

Disclaimer: Having literally just submitted an assignment on copyright twenty minutes before uploading this, I feel the need even more so than usual to mention that I do not own, nor lay any claim to, _The X-Files_ , its characters or its premise. I would appreciate it very much if I were not sued, as that would simply not suit me at all, though if you are an owner of this intellectual property that I am borrowing here (without any financial gain, I might add) I would respectfully ask that you apply US copyright law instead of Australian, as I suspect I stand a better chance of defending myself that way.

/

 _27 October, 1992_

It was so not the time, but from the moment he rubbed his nose with his ink-stained fingers she felt the internal itch to wipe the dark smear away.

People were judging him harshly enough already. Their eyes bore into him like he was dirt; they said his name like it was unclean. Scully was still getting used to the way people conducted themselves around Mulder and the blatant unprofessionalism he was met with within the FBI. Some days she wanted to get herself and her reputation as far from Agent Mulder as she could before the contemptuous looks shifted to her. Other days she wanted to climb onto the desk and drag Mulder up beside her and shout down all his defamers and demand what they were all so afraid of, why they needed to rip at him and sneer at his very name and look down their noses at him just because _he_ had wiped pen ink across his face. Like they'd never done that before. Like they were so perfect.

She never did either. She never ran from him. She never climbed onto the desk to defend him. Sometimes she wondered what he thought of her apparent indifference, whether he thought her a coward. He never said.

"Rental car," Assistant Director Mason read dryly from the documents in front of him. "Three hundred and twenty-six dollars. Overnight accommodation, four hundred neat. Not to mention airfares," he added, accepting another receipt from the panellist beside him, "fuel costs... Do you have any idea what this little misadventure of yours has cost the Bureau?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell us, in excruciating itemised detail," Mulder responded, smartass as usual. Scully kicked his foot, grateful for the solid shape of the desk, their legs hidden from the view of their superiors.

"No arrest, no conviction... a highly irregular final report," Mason commented, very coolly, lifting Scully's report by the stapled corner like it was a dirty sock. Like she and what she had written was now tainted, too. It seemed that running from Mulder wouldn't do her a great deal of good at this point anyway. "What exactly led you two to believe this case was worth the FBI's time and resources?"

Scully looked down at her hands, folded on the desktop in front of her. She hated this part. Things that seemed clean-cut (kind of) in the heat of the moment on the job with Mulder were notoriously challenging to articulate convincingly at a debriefing interview, and especially difficult at a budget meeting.

Mulder never seemed that worried about appearing foolish. He just barrelled ahead, and all five pairs of narrowed eyes turned from her to him, burrowing into him with wholesome dislike. He never cared. She wished he would be quiet, not draw attention to himself. But he didn't know how to be invisible. He didn't know how to tell the difference between the usual contempt directed at him and the triumphant smugness his audience currently emanated in their position of knowledge. The smudge of ink on Mulder's nose was entirely adorable but did nothing to enhance his credibility as he outlined the specifics of that short investigation.

"... not to mention the footprints we found outside the house," he finished listing, totally seriously, ignorant of the eyebrows he was raising. Ignorant of the smug glances some panellists shared with one another at his expense.

"None of which you were able to photograph or substantiate in any way," the agent to Mason's right mentioned, voice robotic, preprogrammed to dislike Mulder and all he stood for.

"As our reports state, all of the evidence was removed from the scenes," Mulder clarified. "Obviously, a cover-up."

"Obviously." Cold, hard, drawn-out, with a nasty little smirk. These people didn't come here to believe Mulder. Scully pulled her hands back from the desktop to hide them on her lap, where she could tighten them into angry fists. It would be so unprofessional to wipe his face in front of the assistant director's panel, and it would be embarrassing for Mulder if she were to interrupt him to tell him. But to leave the ink there, to leave him unknowingly marked, to let them make silent fun of him while he earnestly explained himself, felt like such a betrayal.

Mulder sat forward in his seat, exasperated with their narrow-mindedness.

"It was _invisible_ ," he reminded them all. "Funding cuts to our department have prevented us from upgrading our equipment to include invisible cameras, sorry. Can I put in a request for next year's budget?"

Would it hurt to kick him again?

"Agent Scully," Assistant Director Mason said now, redirecting from what he saw as a hopeless case to one he maybe thought still had some possibility of sense, "what evidence can you provide to back up your partner's claims?"

Scully sat slowly back in her seat, deliberating her words carefully. These meetings were dangerous places for words of passion and what she said on record could easily come back to bite her. Honesty and loyalty warred within her, and within themselves. Had she seen the invisible monster that had terrorised a whole township? Well, no. Could she honestly say Mulder was wrong, that it wasn't there, that he'd imagined it? No, because then she would need to believe that she'd imagined things too. Noises. Blood trails. An almighty shove from some unseen force that had thrown her from a balcony. _Something_ had attacked them, attacked those people and left those clues, and _someone_ in that town knew what it was and was determined to keep it under wraps.

"Agent Scully? Did you see this 'monster'?"

The whole panel shared glances with each other before looking expectantly to her. Triumphant glances. Like they'd just won. They'd played the _Scully_ card and now they were content to sit back and let her do their dirty work.

Tear Mulder down. Light his words on fire.

Mulder sat back, too, and Scully spared him a glance. The way he looked away with a sharp exhalation, folded his arms across his chest defensively, felt to her like a shot in the heart. He was more than happy to defend his crazy beliefs to anyone, shout from the rooftops what he thought he knew, and nothing had ever scared him less than judgement; but for some reason she still wasn't able to explain, he seemed personally invested in Scully's opinion of him.

Eight months of working together and he'd not said why it mattered what she thought. There was a lot he didn't say, she'd gathered. He joked and played and pretended to be open, but mostly he kept his cards to his chest. He didn't really, truly trust anyone.

No one, that is, except her.

She unclenched her fists. She licked her thumb and reached across to rub the black pen ink from the side of his nose. He started, surprised by her unexpected contact, but let her make him clean again. Not that she could ever totally wash him totally clean in the eyes of those who judged them – he would always be dirty to them, always be something unwanted, and that was just the nature of being a revolutionary in a world of forceful order.

"It's like Agent Mulder said," Scully answered, letting her hand drop away while the panellists stared openly at her affectionate action. "It was invisible."

The warmth of appreciation in Mulder's quiet eyes, however, was not.


End file.
